"That must be young Popworth who used to be in our office," I said. "I heard that he was going to be married this year. You must certainly call and leave cards."
"Which sort, and how many?"
"Without referring to a book, I can hardly say precisely. These things are very much a matter of taste. Leave enough—say one of each sort for each person in the house. There should be no stint."
"How am I to know how many persons there are?"
"Ask the butcher with whom they deal."
On the following day I remarked that Popworth must have come in for money, to be taking so large a house, and I hoped she had left the cards.
"I asked the butcher, and he said there was Popworth, his wife, two sisters, a German friend, and eleven children. That was sixteen persons, and made forty-eight cards altogether. You see, I remembered your rule."
"My dear Eliza," I said, "I told you as plainly as possible that it was a matter of taste. You ought not to have left forty-eight at once."
"Oh, I couldn't keep running backwards and forwards leaving a few at a time. I've got something else to do. There's three pair of your socks in the basket waiting to be darned, as it is."
"And, good heavens! That Popworth can't be my Popworth. If he's only married this year, he can't, in the nature of things, have got eleven children. And a house like this can't call on a house like that without a something to justify it."